Burdens
by Wonktastic
Summary: War brings out the worst in people. And the burdens of war weigh heavily. A series of oneshots into the characters of Fire Emblem Awakening.
1. The Healer

Lissa cried every time she went to sleep.

She loved being a healer, she loved the idea of it. She wanted to be the one that people leaned on when they were hurt. She felt butterflies in her stomach and bits of fluff stab at her heart when she saw the smiling faces of those she helped. When she healed the farmer's son from a horrifying illness, the tears of thanks and joy almost melted her heart. When one of the Ylissean royal guardsmen was injured in a training accident, Lissa sewed his arm back up without a scar. The man picked her up in a massive bear hug, and twirled her around in circles, like a father would his daughter. When she had helped the mother give birth, and brought new life into the world, the sweetness of the moment nearly made her teeth rot.

But this was too much.

She couldn't take it anymore.

Being a healer was driving her _insane._

She couldn't sleep. Not anymore. Not peacefully. Not without the nightmares.

They started a long time ago.

She was always a second too late. One second of healing Chrom instead of Robin. One misplaced second of attention. One second where of dragging a wounded soldier into some cover. One single, measly second. One second of fumbling with a vulnerary or thinking about smacking the archer that had been bugging her the entire time in the head. One tiny little second. One misplaced second.

And she would always find someone else collapsed onto the ground, beaten and bloodied like a raw chunk of meat.

And they were dying, bleeding out onto the ground, onto her dress, onto her hands, and everyone else is dropping and dying and Lissa just can't focus her damn staff fast enough, can't get the energy to cast her healing magic, can't blink away the tears in her eyes, can't swallow the bile building in her throat, can't—

Then she would wake up, choking and sweating.

Sometimes, her nightmares were worse. She was there, and she would try to heal, but nothing would work. Amputated limbs stayed amputated. Burns continued to sizzle and crackle against skin. Cuts never sealed. Broken bones remained broken. Skin never grew back.

And no matter how much magic she pumped into someone, nothing would work. Nothing would ever work. And they would keep thrashing, howling in agony as Lissa tried and tried and tried to make _something, anything, _work.

And no one would ever _stop bleeding._

She used to love the color red. It reminded her of spring. Of blooming flowers. Of ripe fruits. Of lips and romance. Of sweet wine and sweet candies. Of birds and berries. Of ladybugs and dresses.

But now, she could only think of blood.

Her hands never stopped shaking. Not even after the battles had ended. Not even after everyone had retired to their tents. Not even in her tent, in the middle of camp, surrounded by friends and family. Not even where she knew she was safe, where there wouldn't be anyone who would be injured at all.

It was getting worse, and she knew it. She almost broke down earlier in the day when Sumia accidentally cut her hand while helping prepare lunch. It was just a little nip, an accidental slip of the hand. Lissa immediately grabbed onto Sumia's sleeve, and inspected her hand. Lissa's hand immediately went to the staff that she always carried with her, preparing to seal up the wound. Sumia snapped backwards, shook her hand a little, and just laughed it off, saying it was just a tiny scratch. After all, Sumia said, there was no reason to waste healing magic on just a tiny kitchen accident.

Lissa was lucky that everyone thought that she was just concerned about Sumia.

They thought that she was being sweet, being the typical Lissa they all knew and loved, being the gentle and kind and loving princess that they all thought she was. But it wasn't that. It was because she was scared.

She was so damn terrified.

She never responded to Sumia. She was too busy wondering why she couldn't bring up her healing magic. Wondering why Sumia had backed away from her healing.

And wondering what would happen to Sumia. She had only managed to calm down after Sumia had left the tent to get a bandage. She was fine, Lissa had to whisper to herself. She was fine. It was just a tiny nick. Just a small cut. Sumia is strong. Sumia is a noble and proud Pegasus knight. She wouldn't bet brought down by that. But that didn't help. Any wound that she didn't attend to was scaring her.

But then, it was also scaring her how she didn't even know what to do anymore when someone wasn't hurt. She had been trained to act and to heal. But what is there to do when someone wasn't injured? When they weren't bleeding to death on a battlefield? It frayed her nerves. After all, she had been trained to watch for others. To look out for anything even remotely wrong with their health.

She remembered that she looked down at her staff and felt the desire to vomit. She remembered that she ran, away from the security of the campsite and into a nearby forest. And she remembered emptying what little was in her stomach on the ground.

This was making her insane.

There was a voice outside of her tent. "Lissa! Three more injured! We need your help!"

She took a deep breath, and tried _oh so hard_ to steady her hands. Then, she swallowed hard and yelled, "I'll be right there!"

Lissa grabbed her staff and moved. She had a job to do.


	2. The Commander

Robin hated closing her eyes.

She hated closing her eyes because every time she did, she would see the faces.

Bleeding, bruised, and dead.

She was supposed to be a leader of men.

She wasn't supposed to feel this way.

But why did it feel like someone had ripped out her heart?

It was supposed to be drilled into her head.

"War is not a pretty thing," they said. "Death is inevitable. That is why war is fought with numbers, locations, formula, priorities, costs, and solutions."

"A good strategist never sees people."

"A good tactician never lets it get personal."

But there was something fundamentally _wrong_ with that. Something that just ate at her insides. How could you simplify humanity into a number? How could you take someone's life and make it another check mark? How could you just throw human lives away? How could you mark something as "acceptable losses?"

It made her sick to her stomach when she thought that way.

People were people. They weren't numbers. They weren't statistics. They weren't pieces on a chess board. They were people, dammit. They had mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and sons and daughters. They had lives. They worked and played and struggled and loved and now all of that was completely worthless? And now all they were was just another number?

Robin could never accept that.

It was why she got to know everyone at camp, or at least, as many of them as they could. She ate with the enlisted, not the haughty Ylissean nobles who pretended to be officers. She woke up at the crack of dawn, just like the lowliest of soldiers, to train. She helped in the kitchen, peeling potatoes and boiling water for stew. She helped care for the wounded, changing bandages and sheets whenever she could. She laughed and joked and played with the rest of the army, because she knew that they were people, not numbers.

She got to know quite a few of the soldiers. Raymond, the archer, had been a traveling minstrel before he signed up for the war. The man had a voice of gold and fingers of silver that could make a guitar sing. Joshua was a farmer's boy turned travelling mercenary, but got homesick and went back to his parents. When the levies came, he signed up because he, once again, got sick of farming. William was an armored knight who had served in the Ylissean army 15 years prior, but once his contract had expired, he left to become a blacksmith. When Ylisse was threatened again, he picked up his armor and his spear and went to join. Maria was actually the daughter of a minor Ylissean noble. She had left her stifling home in search of adventure, and her own patriotism brought her to the front lines.

And then there was Theodore.

She was particularly fond of Theodore, or as he liked to be called, Teddie. A blonde little munchkin, barely fifteen years old. He was bubbly and cute and lighthearted, always capable of cheering anyone up when they were down. He might not have been the best soldier (Robin actually thought he was one of the worst, which was one of the reasons he was assigned as her aide de camp), but he was the best human.

The boy might not have been the brightest, but he had a heart of gold. When the levy came and all able bodied men from 16-60 were called to war, Teddie was the first from his little town to volunteer. He had lied to recruiter, saying that he was sixteen. After all, he had a mother and a sister and a town to defend.

Robin got to know Teddie on one of their numerous marches. The kid didn't even know he was talking to the person who was commanding the entire army. No, instead, he looked over at Robin, asked her how she was doing, and then started going on and on about the best ways to cook potatoes. Boiled, baked, roasted, potatoes in soup, mashed, fried, in a salad… Eventually, his sergeant came over, realized who the boy was talking to, and then gave him a stern talking to before apologizing to Robin for the boy's behavior. Robin had laughed it off, and actually had him reassigned as her aide.

She liked Teddie, for his spirit, for his heart, for his good humor.

That was why whenever she closed her eyes, she saw Teddie, lying dead in the mud, an arrow through his neck. His eyes were lifeless and still.

It shouldn't even have happened, and she was still mentally kicking herself for not predicting it sooner. There was a raid in the middle of the night. Small elements of Plegian soldiers had decided that they wanted to ambush and try to take out as many Ylisseans as they could. There hadn't been any fighting for the last week and a half, she should have known that something was wrong.

She felt like vomiting for the longest time. Of course she knew that death was unavoidable.

But she was human. She wasn't an unthinking, unfeeling monster. She had feelings too, and Teddie was close to her. She couldn't help but feel sad about the fact that Teddie wouldn't be around anymore.

And it would keep happening, wouldn't it? Each engagement they had with the enemy would result in deaths on both sides. Each engagement meant another dead husband and another dead daughter. Each engagement meant more loss. More grieving wives and more lost sons. More orphans out on the streets. More faces when she closed her eyes. What if the next time, it was Raymond who caught the spear in the throat? Or Joshua, with arrows through the chest? Or William burned alive in his armor? Or Maria, with a sword through the gut?

But she could minimize it, couldn't she?

As long as she planned it so that no one would die, as long as she never thought of "acceptable casualties", as long as she made each and every person the most important cog to their army…

Robin swallowed hard and went back to her maps. No one else was dying, not on her watch.

There wouldn't be another Teddie.


	3. The Farmboy

Donnel never wanted to fight.

He hated fighting. He hated it when he was just a little farm boy and he hated it now.

He signed up to protect his country, protect his town, protect his Ma. He didn't sign up to get yelled at and beaten up.

He hated this military life. He hated the early before dawn wake up. He hated the awful field rations. He hated getting rained on. He hated sleeping in a tent. He hated his tent buddy. He hated how cold he always was. He hated how his helmet didn't fit. He hated how his knee guards always slipped when he ran. He hated how heavy his armor was. He hated marching. He hated drill. He hated getting yelled at. He hated humiliating punishments. He hated never sleeping enough, never eating enough, never drinking enough. He hated being so damn tired all the time. And above all, he hated the Naga forsaken pack that was too heavy, and far too awkward for his shoulders.

All he wanted to do was to drop the damn pack, drop his happy ass on the ground, and massage his shoulders.

He didn't want this. He wanted to protect the people he loved. Maybe, he wanted to get some glory. All the stories that the elders told to him about war were all glorious. All stories about great heroes saving the day through strength and skill and cunning. All the epics they told were epics of honor and glory. They told stories of glorious victory against the forces of evil. The good guys always won, the hero gets the girl, and they ride into the sunset.

Donnel was now convinced that there was no way they could have lived happily ever after.

They didn't say shit about the horrors he had to see. They didn't say anything about the brutality of fighting. They didn't say anything about the blood and gore flying into the air. They didn't say anything about the storm of detached limbs. They didn't say anything about the smell of death and fried human flesh. They didn't say anything about the screams and moans of the dead and dying. They didn't say anything about the nightmares. They didn't say anything about the panic attacks he would get just hearing a _woosh_ in the sky. They didn't say anything about how he couldn't go anywhere near horses without being reminded of horrible cavalry charges. They didn't say anything about actually _killing_ a man.

The first time he killed someone, he had been so horrified, he vomited almost immediately. He had spent days cooped up in his tent, wallowing in his misery. It was so easy, he thought to himself, so easy to just stab his spear into some poor bastard's stomach and watch as he bled to death on the ground. There was no resistance as his spear pierced flesh. It was as easy as harvesting grain. One clean stab forward and a quick thrust outward and the deed was done. Donnel could still remember the look of shock on the man's face as he fell down.

He still didn't feel comfortable about killing and he didn't think he ever would be.

He never really had any formal combat training, and he had to learn on the fly. His first time seeing war was a brutal slap in the face. The only reason he had survived was because he hid, like a coward. He hid in a mound of bodies, acting as if he were dead and praying, praying to every single god that existed, that no one would find him.

It was only when the fighting died down that he decided to stick his head up. He had vomited.

Donnel had vomited a lot since he joined the Shepherds.

The column continued to move forward, and to his side, he saw the woods. There was a stirring inside Donnel. Something fierce. It told him to run, to hide and go back to his simple way of living. Back to the farm, where the only blade he would have to see would be the familiar curve of his scythe, and not the jagged point of his spear. Back to the farm where the only cutting would be the cutting of wheat and bread, and not of flesh and bone. He wanted to go back to the farm, where Ma would welcome him with open arms, where a meal would be waiting each and every night, where his bed would await him, always cozy and warm.

If he left now, Donnel thought, he wouldn't have to deal with any of this anymore. No more yelling. No more pain. No more suffering. He would be comfortable and content. He could feel his legs moving slowly, drifting toward the side. He glanced around. Nobody would notice. If he snuck off right now, he could probably make it to a nearby town by nightfall. He could go to an inn, have a hot meal and a good night's sleep. He could pawn his pack away and make a nice sum of gold to bring back to Ma.

But then, what would happen to everyone else? What would happen to Chrom, who saved his little town from total destruction? What would happen to Robin, who protected him and encouraged him? What would happen to Frederick, who took him under his wing and taught him all there was about combat? What would happen to Vaike, who treated him like a brother? What would happen to Gregor, the man who was like everyone's father? What would happen to Lissa? Or Sumia? Or Cordelia?

What would happen to Ma?

They all needed him. He knew it. They relied on him.

Gods, all Donnel wanted was to quit. To run into the woods and never be seen again.

But if he wouldn't fight, who would?

Donnel tore his eyes away from the woods, grit his teeth, and shrugged his pack upwards. They still had twelve miles to go.


	4. The King

Gangrel wasn't a madman.

No, he was far from a madman.

Anyone who believed that Gangrel was insane was an idiot. They'd never seen him behind the scenes, ruling a country full of insane religious nutjobs and corrupt nobles. There were too many poor farmers, trying to till sand, and too many nobles too content with their fine wines and filthy cheeses to do anything about it. And whoever decided that Plegia should worship a Fell Dragon was beyond him. The fact that Gangrel had managed to even keep order in the kingdom was incredible. The fact that he managed, in fifteen years, to make his kingdom prosper, was an act of god. If it weren't for the simple fact that he was Plegian, he would have gone down as one of the greatest statesmen in the history of the world.

Gangrel was cunning and calculating. After all, years of growing up in the slums had left him with a sharp mind, and an even sharper knife.

He was brilliant, easily one of the smartest minds in the world. Bring Gangrel an economic report and he could analyze it with ease, offering pointed advice on what should be done. Ask Gangrel about the natural sciences and he would wax and wane on the explosive effects of sulfur and how it could revolutionize everything. Talk to him about Plegian literature, and he could quote the classics and discuss their importance. He often thought that, perhaps, he should have been an academy professor, what with his intellect. But that would have been a waste of a great leader.

It also meant that Gangrel always knew what was happening in the world, whether it was in his own country, his own continent, or across the sea in lands far away.

And so he knew what was happening. He knew that the tiny kingdom of Valm had found a great conqueror who led armies of unstoppable force. An all-black horde of soldiers led by a giant in red, destroying all that opposed them. That which he could not destroy by pure force, he took with cunning and deception. City after city, kingdom after kingdom, each fell to the almighty wrath of the God King, Walhart.

The last Gangrel had heard, Walhart and his forces had already crushed the last of the great castles of Oslia, leaving the once great nation in shambles. But that had been almost five years ago. Communication with the Valmese continent failed after that and traders could only tell stories of Valm's occupation. Other than that, no news on military movements or political upheaval had been reported. If Walhart had continued his massive campaign of conquest, the only logical place he would move would be the nation of Chon'Sin. Although, now that five years had passed, he had no doubt that Walhart had already crushed them.

That just meant there was nothing but an ocean separating Walhart and total world domination.

He knew what was coming. Valm was a juggernaut, and the entire continent would fall into the hands of the giant oaf unless someone did something. But the Feroxi were too barbaric and stupid. The Ylisseans were too naïve. That meant it was up to him.

Diplomacy wouldn't work. Nobody would listen to him. He already knew that. Everyone thought he was a nut. An insane lunatic who cared for no one but himself. That just meant that diplomatic ties were a bit… strained. Yes, maybe he held a grudge against Ylisse and would sandbag them at every corner, but that was to be expected. After all the war was only fifteen years ago. And sure, maybe Gangrel despised the Feroxi, but what Plegian didn't? Plegia and Ferox were rivals in practically everything.

How could he convince them that the danger was real? After all, besides the barbaric Feroxi, everyone had been living in peace for fifteen years. Nobody wanted war, not when the economy was booming and the standard of living was at an all-time high. People were content to live their days in idyllic bliss.

He was running out of time. He needed something, anything, that could unite the continent and stand against Walhart.

The only thing that could work was...

The Fire Emblem.

He had heard rumors, of course, about the fabled Fire Emblem. Once belonging to the great hero king, Marth, it was the national treasure of Ylisse. The history behind it was something incredible. It was said to have been forged from one of Naga's fangs and used to seal away the Earth Dragons of yore. Afterwards, it was stolen, the famed gemstones placed within it were sold, and the famous Fire Emblem became a cursed object.

Or at least, that was what the rumor was.

None of the history really mattered to Gangrel. He thought it was interesting, yes, but it wasn't important. What was was the fact that he knew the Fire Emblem was the key to great power. With the Emblem, he could perform a mystical ritual known only as "The Awakening". Apparently, the last time it had been used was hundreds of years ago, when the first Exalt of Ylisse used it to seal Grima away. Ever since then it had been revered as a sacred artifact, held under lock and key in some vault deep within the coffers of Ylisstol, only accessible to the Exalt and the ones that she trusted.

But if the Fire Emblem gave a human enough power to seal away a god, there was no telling what it could do to an army of humans.

But he couldn't just saunter up to Ylisstol and ask for the Fire Emblem politely, could he? No, the Exalt would probably just smile gracefully and then ask him to leave. Afterwards, they would probably laugh at his expense. And there was no way he could bargain with the Ylisseans for it. Nothing he offered could match the artifact. It really only left one option.

He had to take it by force.

He could always try to steal it.

It wouldn't work though and he knew it. Or if it did, it would be a slow and steady task. By the time the damn thing was in his hands, Valm would have invaded and crushed whatever resistance any of the nations mounted. No, the only thing he could do was wage total war. Crush Ylisse, destroy the capitol, and force the Exalt into handing over the Fire Emblem. Then, he could perform the Awakening, and unite the continent to destroy Walhart.

Gangrel took a deep breath. If he did this, he would be killing hundreds of thousands. He knew it. But that was a small price to pay for victory. What was a few hundred thousand compared to a few million? In the end, the greater good prevailed.

He needed the Fire Emblem.

He needed a war.


	5. The Assassin

A/N: I suppose this is some sort of alternate universe or something. Just some ideas on Gaius's past.

* * *

There was a part of Gaius that always wondered if what he did was right.

He always picked his assignments. Helped filter out the shit that he got. No, he wouldn't kill someone's political rival. Where was the benefit in that? No, he wouldn't kill someone's mistress. What was the point? A son wanted to gain power against his father? No, that would be dealt with naturally without the help of an assassin. No, the jobs he took were always for the greater good.

At least, what he thought of as the greater good.

He always justified it in his head. You're killing a man who is the scum of the earth, he told himself. You're killing a man who is corrupt, who takes what he wants and never gives anything back. You're killing a man who is a greedy, cruel bastard. You're killing a man who fucks little girls. You're killing a man who is better off dead than alive.

That was what he told himself anyway.

It made sense, from a third person perspective, anyway. After all, if he killed one person, he would lessen the suffering of thousands. Maybe, just maybe, the dead's family might cry. But with the people he killed, somehow, he doubted it. He viewed it like some sort of scholar would view income. Net suffering decreases, net happiness increases.

It sort of sickened him when he thought of it that way.

He wasn't some sort of automaton. Some sort of faceless machine that just weighed out which option was mathematically better. He was a human. He had emotions and feelings and morals. But, he told himself, no one else is going to do it. Only you are. If it kills you, it kills you. But at least it's not killing anyone else.

Gaius moved with all the skill of a honed assassin. He dashed across the hallways, appearing as only a flicker in the light of the nearby fire. From his position behind the wall, he glanced down the hallway and saw a single man patrolling the area.

It was the perfect guard, Gaius noticed. Strong, loyal, vigilant, and the perfect amount of dumb so he wouldn't question any orders. The guard took his forty steps down the hallway, planted his spear, scratched his balls, then turned around to repeat the process.

Thirty eight…

Thirty nine…

Gaius darted forward without a sound, easily slinking into the shadows when the guard turned around. He stayed still, completely flat against the wall and waited.

Thirty eight…

Thirty nine…

By the time the spear hit the ground, Gaius was behind the guard. He could feel his hands move automatically, slipping the crook of his elbow around the guard's neck. With a jerk, he shoved his other hand into the back of the guard's head and pushed it forward, forcing the poor bastard's neck into Gaius's arm. The guard, taken completely by surprise, gave a quiet yelp and immediately started squirming against Gaius's iron grip. His spear dropped as his hands went to pull against Gaius's vice grip. Gaius was a professional, though. No noise at all; he caught the spear with his foot.

Ten seconds passed. The squirming intensified. This was the part where vision starts to get blurry. Gaius knew too well what he was doing.

Fifteen seconds. Seeing stars now.

Twenty. No resistance.

Twenty five. Just for good measure.

Gaius dragged the body into a nearby room. Didn't need anyone to find him.

He walked down the hallway and crept into a nearby room.

Before him, his target lay, sleeping. Peacefully. He was a middle aged man, with hair that had greyed before his time.

He was also an embezzler, taking hundreds of pounds of good Plegian gold and hoarding it. Using it to buy drugs and weapons and women. It was meant for the people. It was meant to help an ailing economy. The gold was supposed to kick start a trade post in the little town. Make good foreign relations with traveling merchants. The rest was supposed to be given to the people, in order to make their lives slightly less harsh. But instead, it was in the hands of a bastard who spent it on personal pleasures, who didn't give a single shit about anyone other himself.

These were the people that Gaius killed.

Yes, Gaius thought. This is for the greater good. This is for the starving peasants you abandoned to whore and cheat and hoard. Without another thought, Gaius plunged the dagger into the man's heart.

Blood bloomed like a rose, staining the white sheets that he laid upon. A soft gurgle left the man's lips as his eyes opened in shock. His eyes widened and widened as the expectancy of death dawned on him. He lifted an arm, slowly, shakingly, and hesitantly, as some sort of last effort to struggle and survive.

He fell limp. The job was done. Gaius, twisted and stabbed again, just to make sure.

"Daddy?" Gaius heard. He jerked around.

She was just a girl. Just a small, cute little girl holding onto a stuffed bear. Gaius could see something glistening around eyes.

She was just a girl, broken down and crying. Couldn't have been more than eight. And she just saw her own father get murdered in front of her.

She probably just came into the room because she had a bad nightmare. She probably wanted to be safe with daddy. She wanted daddy to tell her that everything was alright and that nobody would hurt her.

She didn't get that. Instead, she saw some black clad assassin stick a knife into her daddy's chest.

What type of nightmare was this?

"Shit," Gaius muttered.

Two hours had passed since that had happened. And Gaius still didn't know what he was doing.

He had been so damned confident about himself. So damned sure that his logic was flawless. He was doing something that should be a good thing.

Instead, there was the blood of a little girl on his hands.

Gaius took a deep breath. He wanted to die.

"Fuck it," Gaius murmured. "Fuck it all."


	6. The Soldier

Vaike gasped for breath.

Seven miles in, and he was exhausted.

His muscles screamed bloody murder, agonizing with each step he took. His lungs felt like they were on fire, and each gasp for breath was just feeding the burning in his chest. He felt like a rock, about to hit the ground. All he wanted to do was to stop. All he had to do was slow down and stop putting one foot in front of the other. It was so damn easy to just stop.

Yet, there was something inside him that told him if he stopped, he would just hate himself.

It was still dark outside. Vaike had woken up before daybreak, before the roosters started crowing, before the birds decided to wake and start chirping. It was the same as always. Wake up at the fourth candle, rouse everyone from their sleep by yelling ceaseless obscenities, and work. Work, work, work, for at the very least, two hours. By the time they were done, they would be dripping with sweat and completely exhausted.

But it was their routine. They weren't the best squad of warriors in the Shepherds for nothing.

And he was their leader.

Their leader. It still blew his mind. It was weird. Too weird. Chrom had approached him after a battle, and told him that he would be getting a few guys to take care of. That alone struck fear into Vaike's heart. He wasn't ready for this. He wasn't a leader. Vaike wasn't the smartest. He wasn't the most responsible. He wasn't the best fighter. He didn't have all the qualities of a leader. He thought that he should be the last person to lead a group of people into combat. Anyone, he thought, would be a better choice.

But he was chosen. Him over everyone else.

He glanced backwards and looked at the ten guys running behind him in formation. He knew each one of them.

Alba was a farmer's son, still too young to actually join, but Vaike kept that a secret from everyone. There were plenty of young looking fellows in the army, might as well add another. The boy was too serious, Vaike thought, but he was a good kid, always looking out for his elders when they partied too hard.

Eloise was a painter, with fine dainty hands that were too perfect and graceful for soldier's work. But she was a fierce swordswoman, and she could easily outduel anyone else in the squad. Besides, she always admired her calluses, said it "built character."

Ofelia was a tailor's daughter. She was left without a family far too soon, as her parents and her siblings were murdered in a bandit attack a year ago. Vaike worried about her a lot. She was still so young and so vulnerable, just old enough to be recruited to the army, but the scars of loss always cut so deep.

Old man August was probably old enough to be Vaike's dad. A former blacksmith with a temper as fiery as the forge he used to work at, yet somehow calm and wise like an old sage. Vaike remembered the multiple battles he fought alongside August, always relieved to see the elderly man with his towering shield and massive spear. After all, as long as Vaike stood beside him, the enemy would all fall to the knight's righteous fury.

Nelson was the resident prankster. A thief who made his living in the streets of the city with fingers as quick as lightning and a tongue as sharp as a sword. Vaike always tried to chew him out, but the little bugger would always retort with another witty line. It still didn't save him from doing push ups though.

Edgar was a bookworm. The smart one of the squad, and the one that the rest of them turned to when they needed something settled in an argument. Vaike once asked him about his role as the resident debate settler and Edgar only replied with a knowing smile. Apparently, the man had a bit of a tricky side to him, and he would make some of the stuff up. He was a good man, though, and nobody had called him out about it yet.

Dorian had too much wit and too much charm to keep all of it in his pants. The bastard son of some lesser nobles who had been thrown into war as a last resort. Still, Dorian relished the fighting. Vaike was somewhat annoyed at him, though. If he weren't married, he would have been envious of Dorian. Well, envious until it was his butt that had been literally thrown off the balcony.

Rhys complained a lot. Always saying he was "wrangling little children" when the squad got together on their time off. But he did it anyway. He was older than everyone but August, and somehow got stuck as the resident father. Vaike knew it though; Rhys liked being a father figure to everyone.

Shon was the son of a magical family, but he himself was never blessed with magical ability. Perhaps that was why he grew up jaded and angry. Vaike knew he couldn't quite empathize with him, but he tried anyway. Vaike liked to think that his regular talks with the boy tempered his edge a little. Still, Shon managed to channel his angst into something deadly on the battlefield. And little did Vaike know, Shon really admired the man.

Iva was an army brat. Her father was a knight in the Ylissean Royal Guard, and her mother a rider with the Pegasus knights. Naturally, she saw herself gravitate towards the army. A career soldier who knew far too much about army stuff in general, it was little wonder that Iva was Vaike's second in command.

The thought always nagged at him. These weren't just soldiers under his command. These weren't just co-workers. These were his friends. They had grown on him through the months they had been together. The battles they fought forged friendships and trusts that could never be broken.

And he was in charge. One false move would send the ten of them to their deaths. The thought weighed heavily on him.

But they trusted him. Listened to him. They were there in the best of times, and they were there in the worst of times.

He wanted to laugh. He was a leader, wasn't he? How could he quit? How could he abandon the men and women who followed him through thick and thin? Through hell and high water?

He might not be the best leader, but he would never quit on trying to be the best. Never.

He caught his second wind. "Three more miles, kids!" he cried over his shoulder.

"Hooah!"

No. He would never quit, not for those guys.


End file.
